


Counting Scars

by ChurchillSaidSo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bloodplay, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Scars, angsty fluff, fluffy violence, lover's spat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 16:25:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2116716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChurchillSaidSo/pseuds/ChurchillSaidSo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little Mormor one shot. Fluffy and angsty, as that's how the Mormor ship tends to sail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Counting Scars

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick little sketch to try to wade back into some larger writing. A big thanks to hippano for the picture prompt! And guys, while I get my crap together, go check her blog -- I live for her Mormor tag. I also think it's great for fellow shippers to play ideas off of and get inspired by one another -- especially when our ship isn't _technically_ canon -- yet. Enjoy, and feel free to tell me what you think. ~A

*Inspired by [this drawing](http://hippano.tumblr.com/post/88976525412/requested-by-sebastianwhorean-any-excuse-to-draw) by [hippano](http://hippano.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.

    It was a quiet night. There was nothing but the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall, the slow rumbling of Jim's stomach, and the slow burning of his cigarettes to pass the time. Sebastian wasn't back yet. He'd been due two hours ago, but Jim's phone had lain silent and dark. No word, no sign.

     He wasn't worried. Seb had been missing for longer than this before. Sometimes he ducked out for a couple days at a time to sulk after a row. But those were only the particularly bad ones. The ones where lines were crossed and, occasionally, memorably, knives and blood were drawn. Being them was annoying like that, sometimes. His history _serving his country_ made Sebastian a glorious soldier. He knew how to take orders, take criticism, swallow his pride, hold his breath, and make the shot every time Jim told him to. Of course, the same thing's what made him so sodding difficult. The only thing Sebastian Moran couldn't put up with was unnecessary bullshit. And unfortunately for them, Jim was full of it.

      Well, what of it? It was how he dealt with things. Put up a shield, a door, a wall. Throw in a quip, a jab, an ironic comment. Stab or be stabbed. It wasn't his fault that Seb's emotional skin was about as thick as paper. Sensitive bastard. Take offense at the least thing. All he'd _said_ was to go and patrol the damned roof.

      Between his thoughts, he registered the sound of the front door slamming shut hard enough to shake the building.

      Jim roused himself, staring sleepily at the dead cigarette he was clutching between his fingers. Shit, he'd fallen asleep, or almost, lulled by the stupid clock. God, he was starving.

      Heavy, thudding footsteps crossed from the front door to the kitchen in exactly seven loud beats. Exactly seven and a half seconds. Too slow.

      "Get a bit scraped up, Tiger?" he called conversationally, fully awake now. A strange tingling in his fingertips, he strolled through to the kitchen, blinking at the sudden light.  
Seb was sitting on the kitchen table, holding a rag to the neck of his filthy, sweaty T-shirt. Where Jim would have expected a scowl, he got a pair of pursed lips and a stiff, guarded expression.

      Jim paused, leaning on the doorjamb curiously, dipping his head into the light of the kitchen, immediately sweeping a clinical gaze over the scene. That wasn't at all like the Sebastian he knew. He tilted his head to the side, raising his eyebrows. From here he couldn't see blood -- just the one wound, then, and he was plainly upright and breathing. Nothing too serious. He'd gotten himself home all right. No, it wasn't the wound. It was something else. Something had happened. Jim watched Seb's eyes drop abruptly to the tiled floor, too soon. Something to do with pride.

     "Well?" Jim asked after a moment. Sensitive moments only made him more impatient. "What is it? Who got a bullet into your hide? Did he live to celebrate his luck?"

     Sebastian flicked his eyes back up for just a moment. He knew Jim too well to be surprised about these things any more. Still, the refusal to make eye contact and what was more, the annoyed sigh that was the only offered reply seemed to answer it all for him.

      Jim sighed himself. He couldn't tell if he was disappointed or angry or relieved or suddenly, strangely and deeply fond of the man sitting there bleeding on his table. A bitter mixture of all, probably. He pushed off the door.

     "Oh dear," he said. "Let me get the kit, then."

      He crossed the room and took the first aid supplies from the cupboard above the washing machine. They'd been in this flat for two years, and it was so strictly lower-middle class that it made Jim want to rip out hair fistfuls at a time. But they never moved unless they were under suspect. And things had been quiet lately. Until tonight. Thank God, they could start looking for better flats than this shithole.

      He set the kit on the table and turned on the faucet, shoving his hands under the scalding water and scrubbing up liberally with soap. Behind him, Sebastian swore gently. Hm, he hoped it wasn't still in there. He wasn't in the mood to cut him open and lose focus. He'd really fuck something up, then.

      He dried his hands with a handful of paper towels. "Pull down the ironing board, would you."

      "What?" Seb sat up straight as if just realizing what was going on. "No, _you're_ not going to do it! The last time you _operated_ on me I ended up with this jagged thing--" He took the bloodied rag from his neck to jab spitefully at a crooked scar curving over his left elbow.

       "It was a fucking knife fight," he went on. "It was so shallow it would have healed in a few days, but you _insisted_ \--"

       "It was at least four millimeters deep, Sebastian, forgive me for wanting to speed the healing process."

       "I was fine."

       "Sure you were." Jim pulled down the ironing board himself. The cotton stretched over the steel frame was orange and faded, dotted with bloodstains and burns. He had a square one in the wardrobe that he preferred to iron his clothes on--this one was the makeshift operating table, the kitchen their shoddy theater.

       "Go on," Jim gestured to the ironing board. "Pop over here, and strip your shirt."

       "You're not doing it," Sebastian insisted, stubborn.

        Jim raised his eyebrows, snapping on a pair of blue latex gloves pointedly. "Oh? Are you going to pry out the bullet and sew up a laceration wound yourself? Backwards? Using the very muscles you've just gotten fucked up? Eh?"

      Thoroughly scowling now, Seb yanked off his bloody shirt, dropping it on the floor and sitting hard on the ironing table so that it wobbled dangerously under his weight.

      "Don't fuck it up," he said, gripping his hands tightly on the edges. "It's just stopped bleeding."

      "Now, there's no need to get snippy," Jim said cheerfully, soaking a rag -- a clean one, the idiot, bless him -- and pressing it into the wound to test it. It in fact hadn't stopped bleeding, though what was left was pretty minimal. The rag he'd been using had probably been soaked through, is all.

      Putting pressure on, Jim dug with his clean hand through the kit and brought out a sterile pair of tweezers. He took a long, clinical look at the wound resting just above the shoulder blade, assessing where the shooter had been standing, what kind of handgun it was.

      He nosed the tweezers in and hit upon the bullet almost immediately. Popping it out was easy, and the loud clink it made into the cup of rubbing alcohol infinitely satisfying. Now all that was left was to sew him up.

      "Hold that there, hard, love," he instructed, topping on another layer of gauze. Sebastian's hand came around and obediently pressed into the gauze, head bowed.

      "How'd you know the bullet was still in?" Seb asked quietly after a minute.

      Jim threaded the needle -- unfortunately not a curved surgical one, but a straight sewing needle would just have to do -- and chuckled. "You were fidgeting like there was a bomb inside you, not a bullet. Obvious."

      "Of course," Sebastian said, drily. Jim swatted at his hand and Sebastian went back to gripping the ironing table, anticipating pain.

      Ignoring the tension in his shoulders, Jim slid the needle into skin and commented smoothly,

      "You're lucky this wasn't your spine. Thirty degrees to the right and he would have paralyzed you from the neck down. Pretty useless you would have been, then."

      Sebastian sighed. "Lucky you, that didn't happen."

      "Going to tell me what happened, love?" Jim asked.

      Sebastian turned his head towards the draining board, as if Jim's question were miles deep. Suddenly his shoulders slumped towards the floor, and he shook his head slowly.

      "It was so stupid," he muttered. "I was on the roof, patrolling. Steaming pissed at you, as usual. Wasn't paying attention. Left my tripod up and was pacing the perimeter over and over with the rifle, just -- are you started?"

      "I'm half done. Go on." Jim continued sewing, stitch by careful stitch.

      Sebastian paused for a long moment. Even very still, Jim could feel the tension rolling off him. Nerves. Anxiety. Pain.

      "I was thinking about leaving. Can't lie and say I haven't thought about it a hundred times before. But I was making a corner, and the bastard got me before I even realized anyone was on the street. I shot after him... and..." Sebastian swallowed, cleared his throat pointedly.

      "And you missed," Jim finished for him. "Not because you messed up, but because you were emotionally compromised. We've spoken about this, dear."

      "Not enough, I suppose. Can't not feel, Jim. S'not like I could ever leave, either. S'just the way it is."

      "Well," Jim allowed, carefully knotting the last stitch and sniffing disapprovingly, "I guess I wouldn't want you to give up your passion, even for clarity."

      "Lord knows you make _such_ good use of _that_."

      Jim paused, muddled. He dropped the needle in the peroxide and peeled off his gloves. "Is _that_ what this is really about?"

      Sebastian turned so that Jim could see him roll his eyes to the ceiling, but his smirk was fond. He shoved Jim lightly. "Don't give me orders with your hand down my pants and leave me hanging there, all right?"

      Jim blinked, nonplussed. "Is that not all right?"

      "No, it's not," Seb laughed, "It might even be considered rude."

      "It occurred to me that our target would be on the route to walk home at that precise minute. It wasn't rude, it was unfortunate timing."

      Seb grinned. "Your passion outweighed your clarity, eh, boss?"

      "Only happens when you're around, it seems, Tiger," Jim sniffed, throwing everything back into the medical kit and tossing it on the table. Time for a new one. "Ought to get rid of you in favor of somebody who doesn't annoy the shit out of me."

      Sebastian took a fistful of the gray T-shirt Jim had worn to the hospital that morning and yanked him over so that they were nose to nose. "I think," he growled, "You meant to say, _What would I do without you, Sebastian?_ "

     "Sorry, I don't think I fucking stuttered."

      "You're such a fucking arsewipe, you know that?"

      "A plain thank you would have sufficed."

      Seb's large fingers gripped Jim's jaw and tugged him down for a hard, hot kiss.

      He was probably going to suffer a bit for the frustration he caused earlier -- oh well. By the end of this he would be covered in sweat and Sebastian's blood, and for tonight, that was all the thank you he needed. Perhaps it would seep into him, alleviate a little of his guilt. Another scar because of him. More pain. More reason to leave him alone. More reason he never could.

      Jim pressed his fingernails into Seb's bare chest, carving ten half moon welts into the pale expanse. He dragged them down suddenly, and Sebastian gasped.

      "How'd you get these ones, then?" Jim asked, teasingly running his little finger over one of the three wide, glaringly pink scars that crossed the sniper hip to neck.

      "Those?" Seb grinned against his lips. "Bitch of an ex. Claws like the devil. Hair like fire."

     Jim snorted. He liked asking questions he already knew the answers to, but when Seb came up with bullock half-truths to make him laugh, he liked it even better.

     "Yes," he murmured, going back to Seb's mouth, "I'll bet that's what you tell all the boys."


End file.
